


Five ways Francis Lovell did not die, and two ways he might have

by MichisAccount



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichisAccount/pseuds/MichisAccount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not known how or when Francis Lovell died. It is only known when and how he did not die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 22nd August 1485, Redmore Plain

Their attack comes unexpected, and for a short time, the pretender`s men seem thrown by it. The hooves of their horses thunder, drowning out the screams, the howls, the clashes of weapons around them.

For a moment, they seem on their way to victory. From the corner of his eye, Francis can see Richard is swinging his battle axe, more vicious than he has ever seen him before. Francis`s own sword is drawn and he wields it without conscious thought, at everyone who manages to come close and his horse dashes past.

Tudor is almost within sight.

And then Stanley`s men come. Francis sees them before they arrive, he shouts a warning, but it is too late. Richard spurs his horse, in what Francis can tell is a desperate attempt to reach the pretender before Stanley`s men reach them, but it is in vain. They are too close already, and they engulf them before any of them has time to do more than turn their horses towards them.

Within moments, the animals are dying under them. Richard`s White Surrey is stuck in the mud, and tries rearing up as the men come at him, but the animal cannot manage, and Francis, himself only leaping from his horse only fractions of a moment before it collapses from a sword thrust, remaining on his legs through nothing but luck, hollers in horror. Richard is without a horse, only a few steps away from him. Richard is so very visible. In all the dirt, in his blood- and mud-stained armour, the crown on his helmet glints, reflecting the sun.

Francis can almost see the men grinning as they move towards Richard, and he starts yelling, runs towards him. He hears laughter as he does so, as he throws himself in front of Richard, hears Richard scream. Vaguely, he realises his actions are very probably in vain - they are surrounded by enemies - but he does not care, starts swinging his sword viciously around. If they want to kill Richard, they are going to have to kill him first.

He barely sees the battle axe one of Stanley`s men swings at him come towards him, realises what is happening only for the tiniest of moments.

Richard is alive and still fighting behind him when the axe connects with his head, cutting through his helmet, and he collapses.


	2. 23th April 1486, York

The usurper is dead. He stopped gasping when Francis rammed his dagger into his chest, and he had seen his eyes become empty and glassy. He is dead. Richard is avenged. Francis spits at the body on the ground at his feet, and only then does he become aware of the screams around him, the nearly deafening noise.

The clank of weapons.

Without feeling even a bit of panic, Francis straightens up and turns around, to see Tudor`s men run towards him. He has expected this. He knows what will happen now, but he does not care. Tudor is dead. It happened quickly, but at least for a few moments, he has known the pain Richard must have known when they murdered him. Francis saw the shock and the panic in his eyes when he put his dagger into his stomach, in the short moments while he knelt down next to him and removed it, when he said, just loud enough for Tudor to hear: “This is for Richard. May you rot in hell, murderer.” before he stabbed him through the heart.

Richard is avenged. It does not matter what happens to him now.

It does not take long for Tudor`s mercenaries to reach him. Francis waits patiently for them, but when one of them yanks his arm, tries to drag him away, he starts shouting. He elbows him away, kicks out around him, brandishes his dagger. One of the mercenaries is hit on the arm, and Francis sees blood spurt from the wound. With savage satisfaction, he hears the man scream.

Traitor. Lackey to the dead usurper.

He fights as good as he can, and after a while, he sees several of the mercenaries drawn back, sees the Yorkers, who have stood by in shock until now interfere. Interfere to help him. The mercenaries now not only have to fight him, they have to fight the citizens too.

And they are outnumbered.

Francis almost feels like laughing, and the urge does not even stop when he hears one of the mercenaries, probably their commander, scream: “Kill the bastard! Kill him, we can`t take him alive.”

Well.

His men obey, and as they come towards him, weapons raised, clearly intent on killing him, pikes towards his heart, Francis drops his dagger.

Tudor is dead, and he`ll see Richard again.

He is still smiling when they stab him too.


	3. 16th June 1487, Stoke Field

The battle started promising, but it has since gone to hell. The modern weapons Martin Schwartz has insisted will help them win have turned on them; Francis has seen them blow up into the faces of more than one of their fighters. Tudor`s men have picked up on this, too.

Francis gives orders for the longbowmen to start shooting, but he already has not much hope they will be able to do much against Tudor`s men. They are now in the majority. His own men, Martin`s men, John`s men, have had heavy casualties. Tudor does not seem to have had many, though it initially seemed like it. Perhaps he is employing a trick, too, but the fact his entire army still seems to fight disillusions more than one of their army.

A few have already fled.

It is raining arrows around him, as Francis directs his horse towards John. His standard is still flying, but his messenger has come back without being able to find him, and Francis fears the worst. If John has fallen, his men will flee in droves. And if he has not fallen - is he injured? Why is he not responding? For how long can he hold out?

Should he send in their last reserves now?

Francis is aware it is sheerest idiocy to ride to find John himself, not send another messenger, but it is important he know what is happening. If he allows too much time to pass, it could cost them the battle. Danger to himself is not important under these circumstances.

He has almost reached John`s standard, beginning to fear more and more for not being able to see John, when there is a flash next to him, an almost almighty bang, and he is thrown from his horse, pain consuming him.

He just realises he has been hit by a cannonball before he hits the ground and all thoughts leave him.


	4. 29th June 1487, London

Openly executing Lovell was not a good idea, Henry rapidly realises as he watches his prisoner stagger towards the scaffold, head held high. He discussed it with his uncle after they had captured him, but Jasper had finally convinced him that despite the danger Lovell might make trouble, it would still be a better option than killing him silently in prison. “It`ll look like you have something to hide, and men will talk. They will guess what happened”, he had said, which Henry had thought made a lot of sense.

But they had not taken Lovell`s injury into account. The injury without which, Henry is completely aware, they would have never caught Lovell. And the injury which clearly would have killed him within days if he was not having him executed. It clearly pains him - Lovell is ashen, drenched in sweat and barely able to walk.

Henry sees the men in the crowd that has gathered elbow each other, exchange whispers, and it does not take much imagination to know they are swapping tales of torture, seeing in Lovell`s state the confirmation of the idea he tortured him. This is not helped by the fact the dratted rebel, despite the effort it visibly takes him, carries his head high, meeting everyone`s gazes with eyes that are glowing with contempt.

When one of the two men flanking him tries to take him by the arm when he reaches the scaffold, to help him up the steps, Lovell kicks him, and despite the fact this sends him reeling and fighting for balance, this small actions causes more than a few laughs and whistles in the crowd.

This is a disaster.

The cheers only grow louder when Lovell walks up the stairs by himself, slowly but determinedly. Henry`s two men hurry after him, but they look foolish. Henry grimaces. Lovell glares at them, and then says, in a voice that is astoundingly loud considering his state: “I die a man loyal to King Richard, who was shamefully murdered by a cowardly usurper.”

The crowd seems to gasp almost collectively, and Henry can only stare for a moment. This time, there are no cheers, but he can see more than a few grins. Lovell clearly endears himself to the crowd that has orginially come to cheer his execution.

This is quickly spinning out of control, and his men realise it too, roughly take Lovell by the arms to make him kneel so the executioner can do his job. But they do it wrong, somehow aggravate the prisoner`s injury, and Lovell collapses in their arms. He is unconscious when they position his head on the block, and two rough slaps do not wake him up.

The executioner does not hesitate to do his job, but Henry stands by silently, not able to feel even the slightest relief at being rid of the threat Lord Lovell was. There is not a single cheer when the execution is done. Instead, the crowd is clearly angry, and glares are directed at the executioner. And at him.

What a disaster.


	5. 22nd August 1487, Burgundy

It has been two years since her brother has died. Two whole years. Margaret can hardly believe it, much as she can barely believe for how long her daughter Mary has now been dead. Perhaps because she cannot bear to dwell on it; she acts so her thoughts do not become too terrible, and when they come, they surprise her.

At least, she cannot explain her surprise that it has already been two years since her brother Richard`s death any other way. Certainly, a lot has happened in that time. Her nephew John is now also dead. Richard`s murderer is still on the throne.

She shakes away the thought. May he enjoy his time there. She will not rest until he is overthrown, until he can no longer call himself the rightful king, can no longer boast that by having murdered her little brother, he did the world a favour.

It is rather hard to hear gossip of such tales, though rationally, she knows they cannot harm Richard any more. Richard is beyond such cares now, and she takes comfort from that, takes comfort also from the masses she has read for him, and the memorial mass she had said on this say, the second anniversary of his death, and the one she had said a year ago.

The priest`s words are succinct and helpful, and Margaret feels better when she leaves the chapel. And only then does she notice that her guest, Lord Lovell, has not attended the mass.

She tries to tell herself that he has simply forgot, but this is nonsense. Lord Lovell is more likely to forget his own name than anything about her brother, and it is very unlike him not to attend a mass said for him. Unlike him and alarming, and despite rationally knowing she is probably over-reacting, she sends one of her men to look after him. “See if he needs any help”, she says, and hopes the man will soon come back to tell her Lord Lovell has simply fallen asleep and not woken up in time. He has not been well since he returned to her court after the failed rebellion.

Instead, she hears a scream after a few moments, a scream so chilling Margaret does not lose any time but starts running towards it, all thoughts of dignity forgot.

She finds the man she sent before Lovell`s room, face pale and horrified. “He - he -” But the man does not finish the sentence, cannot bring himself to do so, and after throwing him a short glance, Margaret squares her shoulders, bracing herself for the worst, and enters the room.

Only to freeze.

She has expected to see an unpleasant sight, but she has not expected this. Lord Lovell is dead. This much is obvious, from the pallor of his face, the unnatural way he lies on the floor. She would not need to see the dagger in his chest to come to that conclusion.

Margaret stands in shock for a moment, then she slowly approaches him, kneels down next to him. His hands are still warm, and Margaret forces down the thought that if only she had noticed early he was not in the chapel, she could have saved him.

She looks at the dagger. On his dark doublet, the blood is barely visible, and it seems as if it was an easy way to kil - die. She wonders what strength it must have taken to stab himself with it. She wonders what despair it must have taken, and swallows. For a moment, she thinks she sees him stare at his dagger, eyes red-rimmed, swimming with tears. Sees him lift it -

“My lady?” Her man has returned to the room, but stands in the doorway, looking apprehensive and shocked. “What -”

Margaret looks from him back to Lord Lovell, and swallows again. Then she straightens up and comes to a decision. “Lord Lovell has been met with an accident”, she says, and the man recoils a bit. “An - accident?” “Yes” Margaret is surprised how steady her voice sounds. “He does - did have the habit of playing with his dagger.” This much is true, at least. “He was distracted today by the sad anniversary. The dagger must have slipped.”

“But -” Her servant stares at her, and Margaret steps towards him. “Lord Lovell died in an accident. There can be no doubt about it”, she repeats, in a low tone, and the man nods. “Yes”, he murmurs, and Margaret glares at him. “Fetch my chaplain”, she then orders, and the man turns on his heels, practically runs away, leaving Margaret alone.

She kneels down again, closes Lord Lovell`s eyes and mutters a prayer. Surely - surely - surely a merciful God -

She will have him buried in hallowed ground, come what may.


	6. 21th November 1503, London

The bells are still tolling when Richard slowly walks out of the church, barely noticing how everyone he passes falls silent, respectfully. He does not look back. He does not think he can bear to. Bear to see where he leaves Francis behind in the grave.

He has buried so many over the years. His father, at a time he cannot even truly remember. His brother George. His brother Edward. His son Ned. His dearest Anne. John Howard. His mother. His second wife.

But now his best friend is dead, and he feels really old. Perhaps too old for this world. Perhaps Edward had it easier, dying in his prime. He did not have to watch those he loved die before he did.

Perhaps it is time for his son Richard to rule now. Perhaps he will go now soon. He is older now than his father ever was, and Francis ever will be. He can barely stand the thought.

The illness that took Francis did not take long to do so, and his old friend has died with a joke on his lips. He must have gone on directly to his blessed reward, and Richard feels he should take solace from that. After all, it is what Rob, himself looking shocked, had said as comfort. But it does not really help.

As he steps into the bright sunlight outside the church, his daughter takes his hand. “I liked Lord Lovell”, she informs him, with all the honesty of her seven years, and Richard does not know what to answer. Instead, he looks down to her, his youngest, named Joanna after the mother who died giving birth to her. She looks like her mother too, and now gives him a solemn look. “He always said he likes it when I`m happy”, she says now. “But I`m not happy now,”

“Neither am I”, Richard says, and Joanna nods. “He would want it”, she says, and Richard chokes down a sob. His daughter is right, Francis would want it.

The thought he is flaunting his wishes does not help him, either.


	7. 10th July 1487, Burgundy

When Lord Lovell had returned to her court after the failed rebellion, Margaret had known he would not survive long. His appearance had been a shock; his clothing hanging on him as if it had been made for a man twice his size, his face grey with illness, his arm in a sling.

Margaret had immediately sent her best physician to him, but the man had not been able to do much either. “It`s too late for Lord Lovell“, he had said, bluntly. “I have seen his lordship`s injury. It was too late already when he arrived here. The poison of the wound has entered his blood.“ Margaret had stared at him, surprised how much the idea hurt her. Then she had given orders to make it as easy as possible for him.

Lord Lovell stubbornly fights death for ten days, but on the morning of the eleventh day of Lovell`s illness, her physician comes to her while she is breaking her fast. “It won`t be long now“, he says without preamble after she has greeted him. “I have sent for a priest tonight. His lordship was lucid long enough to make confession. He has been shriven.“ He looks past her for the shortest of moments, through the large window of the room they were staying in, at the bright summer sun. “He won`t see dusk fall.“

Margaret rises. “I will see him, then“, she announces, her tone brokering no opposition. The physician, who has presumably expected her reaction, simply nods. “Please follow, my lady“, he says as he turns to leave her rooms to go back to Lovell. She does as he has said, her mouth set.

When they arrive in the sickroom, Margaret at first thinks Lord Lovell is sleeping. His eyes are closed, but when she comes closer, she notices he is restless, muttering on his bed. His words are indistinctive, though, and he does not seem to notice when the physician bends over him to check his condition. When he has done so, Margaret sits down next to the bed and takes Lord Lovell`s hand, the way she has not been able to do for any of her brothers, and waited.

She is still holding his hand when his breath began to rattle and she knows that the end has come. It is too late even for miracles. “He won`t regain consciousness anymore now“, her physician tells her softly, giving Lord Lovell a sad look. But he is mistaken. Shortly before noon, Lovell wakes up for one last time, staring up at her. Margaret is never to know if he recognises her at that moment. The shadow of a smile seems to tug at his lips, but then the light goes out of the eyes she had found so remarkable and they fall shut.

At noon, Lord Francis Lovell stops breathing and dies quietly in his sleep. He is thirty years old. Margaret privately cries for him, as she had for her brothers and her nephew, but does not show her emotions in public. She organises his funeral, a small but dignified affair. Remembering he had once mentioned his grief about having nothing left of Richard`s, Margaret puts a ring her youngest brother had given her as a wedding gift in his hand, to be buried with him, though it hurts her to part from it.

The sun is shining brightly when he was laid to rest in her presence and that of the young duke of Burgundy and his sister.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, only the fifth and the seventh version are actually possible and might have happened. We have no indication Francis Lovell committed suicide, though, and personally I believe the seventh version is the most like to have actually happened to him.  
> Like all others of my fics, this is tagged "The White Queen" and "The Sunne in Splendour" because of a lack of other fandoms to post it in, not because it is inspired by these works.


End file.
